The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World

by Steven Saylor

  “I’m not sure ‘filch’ would be the proper word. After all, if he found it, fair and square—”

  “He had no right to take it. By decree of the Roman Senate, nothing can be built within a certain radius of the ruins of Corinth. Nor can anything be taken out. Nothing in, nothing out. There is to be no commerce of any sort, and that includes treasure hunting. Of course, one presumes there’s no treasure left, that everything of value was long ago looted or destroyed. But perhaps under all the dirt and rubble, a few precious items might yet remain—like this figurine. That would make this object quite rare—probably worth a legionnaire’s salary for a year.”

  “This little thing? You’re joking!”

  Antipater looked up and down the street. “Perhaps I exaggerate. Nonetheless, I’d tuck that away, if I were you. And I’d keep my eyes peeled for Marcus. I wouldn’t put it past that fellow to knock you over the head and take it back from you.”

  The day grew warmer still. Antipater fell fast asleep. I found myself looking at the craggy face of Acrocorinth in the distance, and felt a sudden impulse to return there. We had lost the wagon driver, but without Antipater to slow me down, I decided I was perfectly capable of walking there and back. I rose to my feet and headed out, shooing the dogs to keep them from following.

  The sunlight was blinding. Waves of heat rose from hillsides covered with dry, brittle grass. I quickly grew thirsty, and realized I should have brought some water with me.

  I reached the line of the ruined city walls, and pressed on. I found the spot where we had run into Tullius and his party, and from there, I tried to determine where I had last seen them when I gazed down from the summit of Acrocorinth. Heat and thirst made me light-headed. The piles of rubble all looked alike. I became disoriented and confused. I began to see phantom movements from the corners of my eyes, and the least sound—the scrambling of a lizard or the call of a bird—startled me. I thought of the mother who had killed her daughter and then herself, and all the countless others who had suffered and died. I felt the ghosts of Corinth watching me, and whispered words to placate the dead, asking forgiveness for my trespass.

  At length, I stumbled upon an area that had recently been disturbed. Overturned rocks exposed the worm trails beneath, and clods of earth had been dug up. Some instinct led me to move a particular stone, and behind it I discovered a narrow defile, just large enough for a man to stick his arm inside.

  The idea that a snake or a spider or something even more terrible might live in such a crack gave me pause. I took a deep breath, then reached into the dark hole.

  My fingers touched something cold and scaly, and I heard a slithering noise. I drew back my hand, then had a glimmer of realization. I reached inside again and felt my hand immersed amid bits of smooth, cold metal. I trapped one of the coins between my forefinger and thumb and pulled it out.

  The silver was tarnished almost black, but the images were so finely cast that I could easily make out Bellerophon astride his winged horse, Pegasus. On the reverse was an image of the monstrous Chimera slain by the Corinthian hero. The coin was thick and heavy in my hand.

  I became so lost in studying the images that I didn’t hear the approach of the horse and rider. When their shadow fell on me, I looked up, startled. The sun formed a blinding halo around the soldier’s gleaming helmet.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Marcus. “The coin, I mean. It’s a funny thing, how some objects are beautiful because they’re one of a kind—like that figure of Hercules you took from me. But coins become more beautiful the more of them there are. And there are a great many in that little hiding place you’ve discovered. It took me months to dig up those coins, along with all the other treasures I’ve found amid the ruins.”

  “Treasures?” I said, my mouth dry.

  “Vases and such. A lot of the things I find are broken to bits, or melted by the flames, but every so often I find something so perfect I can hardly believe it. Like that little figurine of Hercules that Tullius found yesterday and dared to slip into his coin purse. From what I overheard, he and his friends agreed ahead of time to split anything they found evenly between them, and when they found this particular cache of treasures, they agreed to leave it intact and come back for it later. That was naughty of Tullius, to slip the Hercules into his coin purse while the others weren’t watching. What if Menenius had come across it while searching the dead bodies, and realized where it came from?”

  I frowned. “Overheard? When did you hear Tullius and the others talking?”

  “Yesterday, as they went about their business here in the ruins. They clucked like hens the whole time—and had no idea I was watching and listening. I can thank my training for that. Quintus Menenius may be one of the stupidest men the gods ever made, but he did teach me a thing or two about stealth and surveillance. That sort of thing comes in handy if you want to scavenge treasures from an area that’s off-limits, and keep anyone else from doing so.” He shook his head. “Titus Tullius and his friends thought they could come here, loot to their hearts’ content, and run off with the spoils, and no one would lift a finger to stop them. What fools!”

  “Why didn’t you simply report them to Menenius? Wouldn’t he have arrested them?”

  “Menenius would have clicked his tongue, given them a stern lecture, and sent them on their way—then barred all visitors to the ruins, posted guards night and day, and sent a full report to the Senate asking for further instructions. My treasure stores would have been discovered. My little operation would have come to an end. I’d have nothing to show for all my hard work.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Scavenging the ruins? For months. Almost since the first day I was posted to this gods-forsaken place. I couldn’t believe no one else had thought of doing the same thing. The locals are all too superstitious to go nosing about the ruins, and so are most of the Roman soldiers. That silly Lucius keeps the others frightened half to death with his stories about witches and ghosts. I encourage him at every turn, of course. Meanwhile, I come here as often as I safely can, and go treasure hunting. Usually I find nothing. Sometimes I find a ring or a stray coin. And every so often I make a real discovery, like a cameo from a brooch, untouched by the flames and in perfect condition. Or a bag of coins that must have been buried by some wealthy Corinthian, thinking he could come back later and claim it. I hide the things I find. There’s no safe way to smuggle them out without someone noticing, and nowhere in this gods-forsaken place to spend the money or sell the precious stones, so my treasures just keep accumulating. How Tullius and his friends were lucky enough to stumble on this particular hiding place, I can’t imagine.”

  “Lucky? Surely it was misfortune that led them here.”

  Marcus laughed. “Yes, since I observed them doing it. I couldn’t report them, because that would ruin my own scheme. And I had no intention of letting them come back here the next day, and the day after that, plundering the treasures I’ve worked so hard to accumulate. Ugh, this thing is hot!” He took off his helmet and tossed it on a soft patch of ground, then combed his fingers through sweat-soaked tufts of blond hair streaked with gray.

  “So you got rid of them,” I said. My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. I was so dizzy I thought I might fall. “Did you kill every one of them, all by yourself?”

  “I certainly did. With this.” He pulled his short sword from its scabbard. “Had a terrible time cleaning all the blood off afterward.”

  “But how did you manage it? Why didn’t they resist? No, wait—I think I know. You’re not alone in this scheme. The innkeeper is in it with you.”

  “How did you deduce that, Gordianus?”

  “The way Zoticus and I slept that night—we were tired from the long day and the heat, but not that tired. It wasn’t natural. Some sort of drug was put in our food or wine. Something that made us sleep like dead men. The innkeeper did it.”

  Marcus gave me a shrewd look.

  “And he did th
e same thing to Titus Tullius and his party,” I said. “He put something in their wine that sent them into a deep sleep—so deep that not one of them woke while you killed them at your leisure. Why didn’t you kill Zoticus and me, as well?”

  “I’m a soldier, Gordianus. I kill from necessity, not for enjoyment. Clearly, your interest in the ruins was historical, or in the case of your old tutor, sentimental. A Roman pup wandering amid the rubble and a doddering Greek declaiming poetry posed no threat to me. I told Gnaeus to drug you so that you’d sleep through the killing; I saw no need to kill you as well. It seems I made a mistake—which I now intend to rectify.”

  He deftly swung one leg over his horse and dismounted, keeping the drawn sword in his hand. He tightened his grip on the hilt, making ready to use it.

  I backed away and tried to stall him with more questions. “The witch’s curse—the lead tablet among the bodies—was it a forgery?”

  He laughed. “Can you believe the coincidence? Gnaeus and I found it when we searched Tullius’s room after the killing. We couldn’t believe our luck—a genuine curse tablet, scary enough to make Lucius faint and even old Menenius lose all common sense.”

  “But who made the tablet?”

  “Ismene, I’m sure. Lucius always said she was a witch. I took the lead tablet downstairs and hid it among the bodies. It was perfect, that Lucius should be the one to find it. And the way you read it aloud, with that tremor in your voice—like an actor on a stage! Even I had to shudder. ‘Egyptian Ufer of the Mighty Name!’” Marcus laughed so hard he stopped in his tracks. But he was still holding the sword.

  “Lucius said something about other soldiers who died, in their sleep,” I said. “He blamed witchcraft.”

  Marcus shrugged. “That was my doing. Aulus figured out what I was up to, and demanded a share. So I poisoned him. A month later, Tiberius did the same. Lucius was sure they died by witchcraft and told everyone so. No suspicion ever fell on me.”

  “If poison worked before, why didn’t you poison Tullius and the rest?” I said, desperate to keep stalling him.

  He shook his head. “That would have required a great deal of poison. No, it was quicker and easier and more reliable to give them all a sleeping draft, and then use this.” He slashed the air with his sword, so close that a gust of warm air blew against my nose.

  While I ran through every question I could think of, I had been looking for something to throw at him. I was surrounded by rubble, yet all the stones and bits of wood were either too big or too small to use as a weapon. Marcus saw my consternation and smiled. He said he killed for necessity, not enjoyment, but the look on his face told another story.

  I staggered back, weak from heat and thirst. My heart pounded so hard I thought my chest would burst. Amid the oily spots that swam before my eyes, I glimpsed ghostly faces—the dead of Corinth, making ready to welcome me.

  I heard a strange whistling noise.

  Marcus abruptly dropped his sword. His jaw went slack and his eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the ground.

  I stood dumbfounded, then looked up to see Ismene. She seemed to have materialized from thin air.

  “How did you do that?” I whispered. “You killed him without even touching him. You were nowhere near him.”

  She gave me a withering look. “First of all, he’s probably not dead. Feel the pulse at his wrist.”

  I did so. “You’re right, he’s only unconscious.”

  “And not likely to stay that way long. I’d tie him up, if I were you.”

  “With what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Use the leather reins from his horse.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. It’s the heat—I can’t seem to think straight. But I still don’t understand how you did that. Was it a spell?”

  “Feel the back of his head.”

  I did so. “There’s a big lump. What sort of spell—”

  “Really, young man! Did your father never teach you to use a sling?” She held up a bit of cloth. “Witchcraft achieves many things, but as long as there’s an egg-sized stone handy, I don’t need Ufer of the Mighty Name to bring a man down.”

  I finished tying Marcus’s ankles and wrists. “You’re very resourceful,” I said. “Are you really a witch?”

  “Titus Tullius and his friends are all dead, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but that was because—”

  “If you don’t like my answers, don’t ask me questions.”

  I thought about this, and decided to show her more respect. “The handwriting on the tablet at the inn was the same as the handwriting on the tablet I read in the room on the Slope of Sisyphus. You wrote both curses. That’s your witch’s den, isn’t it?”

  “I’m one of the women who use it, yes.”

  “Who is Eudocia, and why didn’t you finish the curse against her?”

  Ismene laughed. For a moment her face was transformed. She looked almost pretty. “Of all the questions to ask! Eudocia is someone’s mother-in-law. At the last moment, the woman asking for the spell lost her nerve. I still made her pay me. Now, I suggest you drape this soldier over his horse and hurry back to Lechaeum, before you die of thirst.”

  “What about you? Don’t you need the horse?”

  “What for?”

  “To get away. The commander has the whole garrison looking for you.”

  “I’m a witch, you silly boy. I don’t need a horse to make my escape. Now go about your business and I’ll go about mine.” She reached into the narrow place, pulled out a handful of coins, then stuffed them into a pouch at her waist. The loose garment she was wearing appeared to have many such pouches sewn into it. Several were already bulging.

  “You’re taking Marcus’s loot?”

  “I never intended to do so, but Ananke demands it. Better I should have it than a Roman soldier.”

  “Titus Tullius impugned sorcery and insulted the dead of Corinth. Now he and his friends are dead. What about Marcus?”

  “His own commander will see to his punishment.”

  “And Gnaeus?”

  She spat on the ground. “There’s a lead tablet under his bed right now. He’ll be dead before nightfall.”

  Hackles rose on the back of my neck. “And me?”

  She smiled. “You’ve done nothing wrong, young Roman. You and the poet showed only respect for the dead of Corinth, and for the sacred place of Persephone. You do the bidding of Moira in this affair. You are the agent of fate. Do you not realize that?

  “Now go!”

  * * *

  By the time I got back to Lechaeum, the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows. In the dry breeze that moved through the grass I no longer heard the whispers of the dead, only the sound of wind. The ghosts of Corinth were at peace, with me at least.

  As I approached the inn, I could see at a distance that Antipater was still asleep under the fig tree. One of the dogs saw me and barked. Antipater shifted in his sleep, but did not wake. I thought I saw a movement at one of the windows upstairs. Had Gnaeus seen me? I hurried on to the garrison.

  Lucius was on guard duty. At my approach, he ran to alert the commander. Menenius appeared a moment later. He strode out to meet me, staring at the soldier slung over the horse like a sack of grain. Marcus was just beginning to regain consciousness. He mumbled and tugged fitfully at the leather straps around his wrists and ankles.

  “What in Hades is going on?” demanded Menenius.

  My throat was so parched I couldn’t speak. Menenius ordered water to be brought. It helped a little, but not much. It is not an easy thing, revealing a truth that will lead to another man’s death. Marcus was a murderer many times over. He had poisoned two of his comrades and slit the throats of a dozen Roman citizens. If Ismene—or Moira—had not intervened, I would have been the thirteenth. I had a duty to both men and gods to deliver him to justice. Still, I found myself unable to look at Marcus as I told Menenius all I knew, aware that my testimony would lead surely and swiftly to his exec
ution. Once he was fully awake, Marcus might deny my story, at first. But I had no doubt that Menenius would obtain a complete confession from him.

  Roman citizens are accorded the dignity of a swift death by beheading, but what did the law decree for a soldier who had murdered his own comrades? Would he be crucified like a slave, or stoned like a deserter by his fellow legionnaires? I tried not to think about it. I had played my part. Now it would fall to Menenius to act as the agent of fate.

  The commander dismissed me, saying he would question me again after interrogating Marcus. I walked swiftly to the inn. The first stars had appeared in the sky. The shade beneath the fig tree was now so dark I could hardly see Antipater, but I heard him softly snoring. The lazy dogs did not even look up.

  I stepped into the inn. The vestibule was dark, but the doorway to the tavern framed the soft glow of a single lamp. Gnaeus must have lit the lamp. I imagined him standing in the room, alone amid the ghosts of the slain. At any moment, soldiers from the garrison would arrive to arrest him for his complicity in the murders. I had no intention of warning him, but something compelled me to step into the tavern.

  Half in light, half in shadow, Gnaeus hung from a rope secured to a beam in the ceiling. His lifeless body still swayed slightly, as if he had committed the act only moments before. Ismene had told me he would be dead before nightfall.

  * * *

  The next day, Menenius allowed us to leave. He even arranged for our transportation across the isthmus. Two soldiers drove us in a wagon, and seemed glad for the excursion.

  At Cenchrea, we found a ship to take us to Piraeus, and continued on our journey.

  As the Isthmus of Corinth receded in the distance, I wondered if the magic of Ismene had truly motivated all the bloodshed and havoc of the last few days, with no one aware of the full truth except the witch herself. If that were the case, how many times already in my life had I been the unknowing agent of unseen powers, and when would I next fall under the spell of such sorcery?